


ctrl+shift+esc

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Trans Damian Wayne, a shitty oc, i'm bitter about the way celebrity children are treated in general, it's all offscreen or referenced in passing but it's also the main conflict so it's there, it's not a major element but that's there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Damian scoffs. “I’m fine.”“You’re not,” Father says sadly, before Damian has even finished speaking.Damian finds himself looking to Drake for support. “I’m fine,” he repeats.Drake shakes his head. “No. You haven’t been fine.”______a mission gone wrong.





	ctrl+shift+esc

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally going to be way longer, but i found this too upsetting to explore in more detail, and not really my story to tell besides. still, here it is.

**Now**

 

Damian is ten stories above ground level when the realization really hits him for the first time in his life.

 

_ I could fall. _

 

He always knew on a deep and primal level that death would be a swift and immediate consequence of failure. But the fear and panic never sunk in emotionally, having no space between the unquestioning faith that everyone, including himself, had in him. Arrogance turned pure unadulterated hubris. 

 

His own hands were fallible. He could make a mistake, go plummeting down down down -- how long would he fall before he hit the ground--

 

Damian is dizzy, suddenly. It feels hard to breathe.  

_________________________________________________________

 

**Then**

 

Damian shifts uncomfortably in his suit. He scans the crowd for what feels like the hundredth time, checking for any suspicious activity. Nothing. He resigns himself to another circuit through the partygoers, and surely many more comments on how “mature” or “adorable” he looks in his suit. 

 

“ _ Well, I more earned my nickname than anything else _ ,” Grayson drawls through the comm. Damian can’t see him or who he’s talking to, and he’s glad, honestly. 

 

“ _ Turn off your comm for non-mission conversation _ ,” Drake says wearily from whatever ornate golden toilet he set up his surveillance equipment in. 

 

As funny as it is that Drake has to camp out in a bathroom stall for the mission, Damian wishes he had been assigned that task instead of having to be out here talking to adults that were somehow condescending and sycophantic at the same time. Alas, both Father and Grayson were certain that Damian’s “childlike appearance” would cause any potential enemies to underestimate him and let sensitive intel slip, no doubt remembering Dick’s days as Robin, and conveniently forgetting Damian’s… entire personality. 

 

“Degenerate,” Damian mutters, before opening his comm line to say, “He didn’t do that on accident. He just wants us to know that he’s a gross horny man.”

 

“ _ Keep the lines clear _ ,” Father commands, quietly but with Batman’s edge. Damian can see the man through the milling partygoers, looking as relaxed as ever. 

 

“ _ Okay, with all the previous galas that had a similar guests lists, the unsubs showed up by this point _ ,” Drake says. “ _ It could be there’s not enough high profile celebrities at this event. Or maybe they smelled a rat and won’t come out to play. I guess it’s good that no one’s gonna show up to rob us. Even if it means this was all a waste of time and I could have been sleeping. _ ”

 

“Hey there,” comes a deep voice from behind Damian, drowning out another reprimand from Father about keeping the lines clear. 

 

Damian turns around, carefully schooling his features into neutrality. 

 

_ Don’t compromise the operation with one of your scenes _ , Father had reminded him this morning. 

 

So what if he was standoffish at best and outright abrasive at worst? It was all just words. These fools could deal with it or leave the location if it was so unbearable.

 

“Hello,” Damian greets, as bland as possible. 

 

The man before him was only taller by a few inches and rakish. His long blonde hair was swept back underneath an ugly hat, and his clothes were the special kind of ugly that you could only buy for 10k apiece. 

 

So this would be his party parasite du jour? Fucking perfect.

 

“Heyyy little one,” he says, reaching out to push playfully on Damian’s shoulder. “How’s the party goin’?”

 

Damian mentally counts down from five; an anger management technique that Grayson has been trying to teach him. It’s not particularly helpful. “Not nearly enough drama or intrigue. I’d like to imagine it as the opening five minutes of a police procedural before someone gets murdered.”

 

“Shit, you’re funny,” Ugly Hat laughs, and smiles with all his teeth. “I like you. Is it okay if we hang out?”

 

“ _ I may have suspicious activity near the east side of the building _ ,” Drake reports, overlapping with Ugly Hat’s question. 

 

Damian moves away. “I’m afraid I cannot commit to only one conversation partner for the evening. Father wishes me to speak with as many guests as possible.”

 

“Quantity over quality? Man, that’s stupid. Hang with me!” 

 

_ Augh, god, does he think this is how teens talk to each other?  _ Damian thinks. “I will have to respectfully decline.” 

 

Damian walks away. 

 

Ugly Hat follows behind, his pace matching Damian. “Well then I’ll just be where you are! You can do your rounds, and I’ll just be there like a friendly ghost!”

 

Damian notices the other guests avoiding him more than usual when they caught an eyeful of Ugly Hat. He hated Ugly Hat, but it seemed he was useful for repelling the crowds. 

 

“ _ Damian, you’re getting too close to Dick, I can’t have you guys clustering together _ ,” Drake says. 

 

Damian sighs quietly, and turns, meandering in a new direction. 

 

“If you’re bored, why don’t we head over to the open bar?” Ugly Hat suggests. “You look thirsty.” He lightly grabs Damian’s arm and steers him over to a stool. 

 

Damian can’t help scowling as he settles onto the seat. His unease is growing, but he's used to being followed around at these kinds of event by all types: glory seekers, gold diggers, paparazzi, the works. This is nothing new. 

 

_ God, if only the suspects would just show up and attack everyone already. This is getting unbearable.  _

 

“Two long island ice teas,” Ugly Hat calls to the bartender, settling in next to Damian and giving him a sly wink. 

 

Damian barely keeps from rolling his eyes.

 

“ _ Everyone brace for action _ ,” Drake says. “ _ I can’t tell for sure, but there may be something happening by the south entrance. Do you want me to call the girls in, Bruce _ ?”

 

“ _ We’re ready _ ,” Cain says. 

 

“ _ Can’t we be ‘the women’ at this point? I’m almost 30 _ ,” Gordon adds petulantly.

 

“Here ya go,” Ugly Hat says, handing the drink to Damian. “Try a little alcohol. It’ll make the night go faster and easier, trust me.”

 

“ _ No, wait until they make the first move _ ,” Father says. 

 

Damian barely glances at the drink and holds it near him, his training with both Mother and Father keeping him wary of strangers putting something in his drink, looking around to find a good way to escape this man, hoping someone will latch onto his mild distress, but he can’t catch anyone’s eye. “I legally cannot drink.”

 

Ugly Hat scoffs. “Who cares about that? For folks like you, it just costs a little extra pocket change to drink. Have a sip, don’t leave me hanging little bud.” 

 

Damian starts to stand. 

 

Ugly Hat grabs his arm, and Damian almost breaks his hand. “Hey little everyone, the kid is too chicken to have a drink! He must not really be Bruce’s real son after all!” he calls to the surrounding guests. 

 

Damian feels the attention shift to him, and he stiffens. “Are you suggesting my father is an alcoholic?”

 

He can feel the energy starting to buzz. The guests are hanging around like vultures, sensing a fight and waiting for the kill. 

 

_ Don’t make a scene _ , Father warns again in Damian’s memory. 

 

“Nah, just that he has really good taste. Have a sip, at least,” Ugly Hat says good naturedly, though there’s something sinister beneath his smile. 

 

“ _ Everyone get ready to evacuate the guests. Give the  _ women _ room to work _ ,” Drake says. 

 

Damian rolls his eyes and takes a sip. The interest around him holds until he says, “Tastes like piss,” he says honestly. 

 

They laugh, and a few people ruffle his hair and call him cute before dispersing. Damian barely manages it without violence.

 

Ugly Hat chuckles. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He gives Damian a fond smile. 

 

Damian shakes his head, counting the seconds. Is Drake just being incompetent? How long are the attackers going to stay their hand? It was starting to feel like intentional stalling. 

 

“ _ Maybe they’re waiting for something _ ,” Drake ponders. 

 

Damian wants to growl at the confirmation of his hunch. 

 

“You really only gonna take one sip?”Ugly Hat asks. “After I bought that just for you?”

 

Damian has had plenty of creeps follow him around at parties, but this man is something else. Somehow, Ugly Hat knows that Damian doesn’t want a scene, and is threatening causing another one. 

 

Damian looks at his drink, and mentally reminds himself that no one but the bartender has touched it. He just has to ride out the next few minutes with this weirdo, and then he would be free. 

 

He looks Ugly Hat in the eye and takes a sip, raising an eyebrow in scorn. 

 

Ugly Hat laughs. “You’re such a riot, Damian!”

 

Damian hates the sound of his name in this man’s mouth. 

 

The bartender glances over. “Careful kid, that stuff will hit you fast.”

 

“Don’t worry, I got my eye on him,” Ugly Hat says, smiling at the bartender and slapping Damian on the back. Damian starts to count down from fifty, clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. 

________________________________________________________________

 

**Now**

 

He looks down at the streets, where people move like dyed bacteria under a microscope, and sways. 

 

If he steps down from the ledge, that means his fear wins. He can’t back away. He just, just needs to--

 

“Damian?” Drake’s voice crackles in his ear. “I’m at your seven, heading your way. You good?”

 

Damian gulps a breath to answer, but suddenly doesn’t see the point of answering. Doesn’t see the point to any of this. Choosing inaction, ignoring the problem instead of thinking up a biting reply, is so empowering. He feels untouchable. 

 

He leans farther forward, neck craned all the way down, and swallows. A good scare should snap him out of it. 

 

Either his hands would follow the paths of muscle memory and catch him like all the times before, or he would die. And he would rather live in the action than speculate.  

 

He doesn’t scope out where he would shoot his grappling hook, or get it ready in his hand. His vision spins as he slumps over the edge, hands drifting out into the breeze.

 

His center of balance moves from his abdomen to some point floating in front of him, the heels of his boots make soft sounds as they release the edge of the roof,  _ falling forward _ \--

_________________________________________________________________

 

**Then**

 

Somewhere around thirty-one in his countdown, he starts to feel wrong. 

 

Woozy.

 

_ This doesn’t make any sense, _ Damian thinks, gripping the counter to keep from swaying on his stool.  _ I’ve drank alcohol before. I saw this drink get mixed; I know what’s in it.  _

 

On top of that, though he hasn’t been outright drunk, he has been tipsy before. This is not that. 

 

The windows on the east side of the building shatter.

 

Damian perks up, but his shoulder is grabbed behind. He shakes it off, but it just returns. 

 

“I got you,” Ugly Hat says into his ear. 

 

“ _ Move! _ ” Drake says. 

 

“I got the kid!” Ugly Hat calls to the few guests looking over their shoulders in concern at the sagging child as they ran out. “He probably just drank too much, haha!”

 

Damian knows he should ask for help on his comm. He doesn’t want to disrupt the mission, and he doesn’t want to risk Ugly Hat sticking his nose into why Damian is wearing a comm in the first place, but… he knows, in his gut, that he should.

 

That choice is taken away from Damian when suddenly, his entire body goes slack. Real panic starts to well up in his throat.

 

“Don’t worry, I got you Damian,” Ugly Hat whispers, scooping him up like a sack of potatoes and lumbering out with the stream of people through the exit next to the bar.

______________________________________________________________

 

**Now**

 

A hand grabs him from behind and yanks him back, causing him to crash gracelessly on his ass. He gasps for air and runs his hands over the bumpy surface below him, wishing his gloves were off so he could feel every detail of it. 

 

He hears Drake talking to him, but he doesn’t bother translating the sounds into meaning. 

 

He feels like he’s about to die: a strange acceptance that he’s going to drop dead any second now and it would be fine. Honestly, it’s a big improvement over the dread from earlier. 

 

Air is too thick. He’d wanted to fall. He’s furious that he didn’t get to fall. He wants to fall.

______________________________________________________________

 

**Then**

 

Damian’s greatest strength is action. He’s the boy who lived through mystical horrors and merciless training by gritting his teeth and  _ moving _ . 

 

“Wow, I was  _ not _ expecting this. This’ll definitely be an easy job. Holy shit, no one in the press knows… God, it’s perfect.”

 

The sound of fingers tapping on a table, and another electronic camera shutter, the kind from old smartphones.

 

“Why so many fucking scars? God, this is so creepy.” 

 

Damian can’t move. No matter how hard he tries. There’s something heavy pressing him down, some kind of invisible force, and he’s not strong enough to fight back. 

 

Damian rallies desperately.

 

His arms shift, barely.

 

“I’ll… I’ll...” he whispers, barely audible or intelligible. 

 

How much longer until his family realized he was gone? He couldn’t be sure how long it had been, but surely it had to be at least an hour…

 

“Huh. You’re awake? You’re not supposed to be awake. You can’t be awake.”

 

Damian wondered whether he should have stayed quiet. 

 

“Hah….. you won’t tell anyone. Right? You’re too much of an arrogant asshole to tell anyone about me…about this.”

 

A long beat.

 

“Uh. You wouldn’t tell, would you…? Shit. Uhh.”

 

Damian holds his breath, knowing that the mental math this idiot was doing really only had one logical conclusion: if this man didn’t want to go to jail, Damian would have to die. 

 

“I have to kill you, don’t I? Oh my god, how do I…”

 

Damian  _ fights _ . 

 

He moves his hand two inches. 

 

The idiot starts crying. “I don’t want to have to kill anyone…”

___________________________________________________________

 

**Now**

 

“Damian.” Drake’s voice is so close that he can feel breath on his ear. 

  
Damian flinches and his eyes come into focus, just enough to see Drake hovering in front of him. 

 

Damian’s vision is weirdly dark. Maybe the lenses of his mask are dirty. 

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Or at least he means to. He puts so little effort into speaking that he barely recognizes the words. Or maybe his hearing is going out.

 

Drake seems to understand him anyway. “You’re having a panic attack, Robin. I’m taking you back to the cave.”

 

Damian shakes his head. “Fath--” 

 

“Batman has already agreed that you’re in no shape to patrol.” Drake says, face scrunched up, making him uglier than usual. “As soon as you’re fit to walk, we’re going. The car’s ready on the street.”

 

Damian feels his brows knit together. He’s confused. How much did he miss? He should have heard that over the comms.

 

“No.”

 

“He’s responsive,” Drake says, holding his fingers to his comm in his ear. “I’m moving him.”

 

“Noted,” says Father’s tinny voice in Damian’s ear. “Robin, please don’t make Red Robin fight you on this.”

 

Damian shakes his head, searching for the strength to act. Suddenly, he realizes that Drake, in preventing Damian from jumping, has made Damian into a coward. Reliably, white-hot anger floods him, makes him move. 

 

He jumps to his feet, and even though he feels nauseous and his heart is going a mile a minute, he can fight now. Fighting is what he’s good at. No matter what.

 

Control. 

  
He feints left and then aims a kick from the right. Drake makes an annoyed sound, and then suddenly Damian’s face is being ground into the pavement, Drake’s hand in his hair, holding him there. Damian isn’t sure how this happened.

 

Damian squirms while Drake talks on the comms. “Well, him attacking me is hopefully a good sign,” he quips. “I think the worst of it is over.”

 

After what he feels is a token struggle, Damian pretends to give up. Then, he bucks, but Drake is expecting it and keeps him down. Damian snarls. 

 

“Why are you so intent on humiliating me for no reason?”

 

He feels Drake shift above him and the hand in his hair tightens pointedly (and painfully) before letting go. Damian sits up and turns a glare on Drake, hand rubbing the throbbing patch of hair cuticles. 

 

“That attack looked-- really bad. I thought you were--”

 

“Going to kill myself? Please,” Damian sneers, even though something slimy and cold slithers through his heart when he speaks the thought into existence. 

 

“I was going to say, you looked like you were going to pass out and fall,” Drake finished pointedly.

 

Damian blinks in surprise, and then in embarrassment. “I was perfectly in control.”

 

“For sure. Now let’s get you home.”

 

“That’s completely pointless! I’m fine, you’re fine, so it would be a waste to leave Batman on patrol alone.”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of patrolling on my own,” comes Father’s voice from behind Damian. 

 

Damian rolls his eyes and turns around. Honestly, the drama of it all. “That doesn’t mean you should,” Damian argues. 

 

“Maybe, but you shouldn’t be patrolling, and I know you well enough to know that if I don’t have Red Robin babysit you, you’ll go out on your own and do something that will endanger yourself or others.”

 

Damian bristles, his face hot. “I’m not a danger to myself!” He grits his teeth. “And I wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he adds, his voice tinged with hurt that he didn’t authorize. 

 

He sees Drake and Father exchange looks. Damian can see the minute changes in their posture that say they’re both ready to give him a fight if he tries to get away. 

 

“It’s quiet out tonight anyways. Crime is down because of the bad weather,” Father continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I was already planning on sending you home. You’ve clearly been tired lately.” 

 

Damian feels like his anger is too big to fit in his body. “Will you stop punishing me? It’s not my fault your idea went south.”

 

“This isn’t about that,” Father says sharply. “I’m not punishing you. I think you’re punishing yourself. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard trying to make up for your mistake, and it’s putting you off your game.”

 

Damian scoffs. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not,” Father says sadly, before Damian has even finished speaking. “Now go home.”

 

Damian finds himself looking to Drake for support. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

____________________________________________________________

 

**Then**

 

It wasn’t for almost an hour after subduing the attackers that they realized it was all a diversion. Just so some rich creep could take pictures of rich kids. Blackmail. Nothing interesting. 

 

But combined with Damian being missing… it wasn’t a good look. 

 

They were all combing the building. It was slow going, infuriatingly slow. 

 

“Dick!” Tim hears Bruce shout down the hallway. 

 

He pushes into a full sprint and slides to a stop just outside the door that’s hanging open, assessing.

 

It’s some kind of large kitchen, meant for professional staff to cater for large events. Knives and spatulas line the walls. 

 

He can see Damian laid out on a stainless steel counter, shrouded in shadow. Crumpled near the door, Bruce and Dick were struggling against some invisible force. 

 

Standing over all of them was a man with long hair and a truly ugly hat. 

 

His eyes snapped up to Tim. His face was panicked and streaked with tears. 

 

“I can’t,” he sobs, hand outstretched towards Tim, and suddenly Tim feels like he can’t stand, and he starts to sag against the wall. 

 

Ah. He was a metahuman. Fantastic. 

 

On the ground, Dick suddenly rallies and manages to get into a crouch. 

 

The bad guy panics and wheels on Dick, who hits the ground again. 

 

Tim feels a resurgence of strength, and he sees Bruce start to drag himself upwards. 

 

So that’s it. This guy can only hold down so many people at a time. 

 

Tim grunts when the paralysis hits him again, and Dick and Bruce freeze too. This guy must have rallied in kind, because none of them can move. 

 

An enraged cry sounds from the dark, and a giant serving spoon whacks the bad guy on the back of the head, and he drops with a cry. 

 

Damian stands over him, eyes wild. His clothes were…. Not there.  

 

Tim averts his eyes, feeling guilty. 

 

Damian kicks the whimpering man in the head and then retreats back into the dark. 

 

Dick leans his back against the wall, breathing heavily. 

 

Tim steps inside, kneels, and ties the man’s hands, and then on second thought opens a cabinet and shoves the man inside. Who knows how his powers work.

 

“I’m fine,” Dick says hoarsely, but it’s not very convincing. His hands are shaking. “Damian?”

 

Bruce puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, and squints into the dark. “Damian, are you alright?” His voice is already thick with dread, no doubt imagining what happened.

 

No response from the shadows. 

 

Tim finally looks at the corner. His night vision lenses kick in. He can see Damian crouched with a knife, breathing audibly. 

 

Good thing the other two hadn’t tried to approach him. 

 

Tim weighs his options briefly, before deciding he isn’t a coward, and even though he isn’t the best person to do this in general, he’s the best they have at the moment since Dick seemed to be having a panic attack and Bruce had his hands full dealing with that. 

 

“Damian, are you alright?” Tim asks softly. His stomach has been feeling sicker and sicker as he works through his weird twisted empathy for his brother. 

 

He didn’t find himself really wanting to ask what happened. 

 

Damian’s breath hitched, holding the knife a bit higher.

 

“Please don’t stab me. Can I turn on the light?”

 

“Don’t,” Damian says quickly.

 

“Okay,” Tim agrees. “Uh, do you need immediate medical attention?”   
  
“No.” Damian’s breath hitches. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

 

Tim's rock steady intuition tells him that Damian is telling the truth. Sickly relief bursts in his chest like a bubble popping. “Okay.” 

 

Tim eases closer, heart in his throat. “Damian,” he says sadly, seeing tear tracks. 

 

“Shut up,” Damian says, and then crumples.

 

Tim catches him, his arm winding around carefully. “I’ve got you.” With his other arm he detaches his cape and wraps it around Damian, tucking in the edges quickly. 

 

He almost has a heart attack when Damian wraps his arms around Tim and clings, his hitching breath buried in the collar of Tim’s suit. No immediate stabbing occurs, so Tim holds him, hoping he wouldn’t get stabbed in the kidney for his pains, and then feeling like the scum of the earth for even thinking that right now.   
  
“I’ve got you.”

____________________________________________________________

 

**Now**

 

Drake shakes his head. “No. You haven’t been fine, Robin. And ...and I’m sorry for that.” Drake adds after a moment, eyes averted, like it’s his fault somehow, which is ridiculous. “Let’s just go back. I know how you hate the cold.”

 

The night just keeps getting better and better. 

 

“Fine,” He bites out between his teeth. 

 

Father and Drake do not relax their postures. 

 

“Fine,” Damian says again, sharper this time. “You want a fight? Too bad,” he snarls, and then goes into a backwards handspring, and goes flying off the edge of the building. He ignores the shouts of protest and twists away from Father’s grabbing hands and Drake’s bolas. 

 

Smooth as water, he falls. 

 

He pulls his grappling hook from his belt and glides down to the black mass of the Batmobile below, and does a few extra flips for show. Muscle memory and perfect intuition. 

 

He looks up to see Father and Drake leaning over the edge, looking down at him, faces too far away for their expressions to be distinguishable. Relief pumps through his chest, almost painful. He’s in control.

 

Still in control.

 

He raises his middle finger to them, gets into the car, and drives off by himself. 

 

_ Turns out, the cure for a panic attack is spite. _

 

The drive back home is quiet. Damian appreciates the solitude, a much more freeing kind than the one that comes from locking himself in his room. 

 

He pulls into the cave and hops out, changes, downs a water bottle, and considers just going upstairs and sleeping off the lingering shakes in his hands. Wandering through the empty halls is nice, too. It’s so nice that he thinks he could do it all night. 

 

He turns a corner and gets caught by the shoulder. He kicks backward before realizing he’s doing it. 

 

“Whoa, it’s just me, Lil’ bro.” 

 

Damian’s heart twists despite himself. “I would have thought you were above sulking in hallways, Grayson.”

 

He turns and sees Grayson, a worried expression on his face. “I heard what happened.”

 

“Nothing happened. Drake overreacted so that he could bench me.”

 

Grayson sighs, clearly unconvinced. 

 

This infuriates Damian. He hates his words not being taken seriously. He hates other people thinking they know him better than he knows himself. He hates… he hates that he knows that they’re right, and that he’s… less than stellar at the moment. 

 

“Alright then,” Grayson says. “Well. I guess now is as good a time as any to say I’m sorry.”

 

Damian squints. God, why did his family always choose to have conversations in the dark? “Sorry? Why?”

 

“I reacted pretty badly to… that whole thing, I know. And then I went AWOL.” 

 

Damian tries to show his lingering hurt over Grayson vanishing for two days without answering his phone. 

 

“I haven’t been there for you, and that’s on me.”

 

Damian pauses. He can sense the weight of something here, something deeper, some trauma that hasn’t been explained. He knows Grayson is expecting only to give, and not to receive, which is exactly why Damian considers his words carefully. 

 

“To repeat something you’ve said to me before… It’s okay to not be okay.” 

 

Damian can see Grayson’s eyes water in the dark. His chest swells in satisfaction. 

 

“Wow. When did you grow up?” Grayson says, and ruffles Damian’s hair. 

 

“I was always grown up.” 

 

Grayson hugs him, chuckling, and Damian allows it. 

 

“Uh. Hey Dick, nice to see you’re okay.” 

 

Damian stiffens and pulls away from Grayson. “Drake, must you destroy every single good moment I’ve ever had?”

 

Drake, no longer in costume, was standing a few feet away, looking constipated. 

 

“Be nice,” Grayson says tiredly, expecting a fight. 

 

“I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Damian,” Drake says, and tries to walk by to his own room. 

 

Damian likes efficiency. As such, he figures he might as well take care of all the touchy-feely stuff  _ now _ so that they can all get back to business as usual and pretend this never happened.

 

“Actually, Drake,” Damian says, amused at how Drake freezes in his tracks, “a word, if you may?”

 

Grayson gives him a look. “Are you going to be nice?”

 

Damian waves him away with a flourishing hand gesture. “Fear not. Just a little brother-to-brother conversation.”

 

Grayson gives him a long look, both his brothers a hair ruffle, and then fucks off into the dark somewhere, possibly to watch from the shadows to break up a fight if needed. No matter.  

 

Drake is looking at him like he’s grown another head. “Yeah, okay…”

 

“You may follow me to my room,” Damian says. 

 

Damian leads the way to stand in his room. 

 

Drake follows quitely. He looks around at the furnishings, the room new to him. 

 

Damian closes the door behind them, hoping that would keep his oldest brother from eavesdropping. He turns, clasps his hands behind his back, and clears his throat. 

  
Drake gives him his full attention, eyebrow raised. 

 

“Thank you,” Damian says. 

 

Drake looks visibly shaken. “Uh. Wow.”

 

“Don’t tell anyone I told you that. Now goodbye, get out of my room and never come back,” Damian says, opening the door and gesturing for Drake to leave. 

 

“You brought me in here for that…? Alright then,” Drake says with a shrug as he walks past. 

 

Damian sniffs derisively. “Goodnight.”

 

Drake turns back just as Damian is closing the door. “You know… It’s okay to not be--”

 

“Yeah, I got that.”

 

“No I mean. Like, you’re not going to just feel better if you act like it is, you know? Like… it sucks and you’re gonna have to keep dealing with it.”   
  


“Gee, thanks.”

 

“No, I mean…! Ugh. Listen, you’re. You’re uhh…” Drake deflates. “Never mind.”

 

“I can really see why Father chose you to inherit his company. Truly, a man of eloquence.” Damian shuts the door.

 

“What I mean to say is -- you’re my little brother! ...and a really shitty one!”

 

Drake stomps away. 

 

Damian laughs to himself. 

 

He knows, on some level, that Drake was trying to get things back to the way they were, and letting him win this one besides.

 

A paltry offering, but one he would accept nonetheless. 

 

He collapses into bed with his pets, and hopes not to dream. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i restructured the story so many times that it's probably a bit choppy, that's my b. 
> 
> the implication here is that dick was having a flashback to his own sexual trauma as seen in nightwing #93.
> 
> thanks for reading.


End file.
